We are moving back to our Harvey-flooded house in a week’s time. It’s been a year and a half since we were displaced. I have moved three times in my life, and I have come to a point where I find it more unnerving than rewarding. Not that I dislike adventure and discovery – it’s just that I’ve had too much of it. I like to come back to something familiar, without having to change the entire wiring of my brain over the whereabouts of the forks. I like things to be within my arm’s reach. I like the familiar things to be within my eye’s glance. I like my future to be within my imagination’s scope.
Yet, move we will. Moving things around is like uprooting trees. My couch must have grown roots into my bedroom floor by now, and the poor fellow will probably screech and squeak as I yank it out of its native soil. My bookshelf will look so orphaned without the books, which will end up in boxes. A gaping hole in its heart will be hard to look at for a whole two hours until the books find their way home. The spoons and cutlery will be dinging against each other as they fight over their place in the new kitchen drawers.
Yet, move we will. We can’t do without moving. We can’t do without some unrooting. We can’t do without some dinging and some finding your place under the sun. They say, there’s nothing new under the sun. But when you have been moving around for quite some time, you almost want to say there’s nothing old under the sun. But we will get through and rediscover our old nest. We will send down new roots after some screeching and squeaking. The gaping holes in our hearts will be filled with new and old books. The new place will become the familiar place, but, after a while, our souls will suddenly overflow with the desire for new adventures and discoveries. Aren’t we a strange mix of resisting change and yet yearning for it?
We hate being uprooted and yet can’t seem to settle in for what we have. We want to rest our eyes on something familiar and yet crave for the scope of our imagination to ever expand to new horizons. I guess I will take it easy, and start preparing for my unavoidable move, little by little. One box at a time, one screech at a trip, one ding at a walk.
Once upon a time there lived a giant by the name of Yant. He was so huge that he could easily step over wide rivers. But that’s not what he loved to do – his favorite pastime was to sit on the bank of the river watching tiny boats sailing by. When the boats were passing the spot where he sat, he would often, just for the fun of it, bend over the river, pretending to be a bridge. He would plant his legs on one bank, lean over and put his hands on the other. He loved this game of a bridge and spent hours at it. Often, those who happened to sail by underneath his big round belly, would lift up their heads and say to each other: “That’s a good bridge, no doubt about it.”
The giant did not mind. He knew who he was – a giant, not a bridge. But it happened quite often that, whenever a boat was passing by, the people onboard would hear his stomach rumble after a hearty meal and say to each other: “This bridge is very well built. What an incredible traffic capacity. Hear all this noise?”
Actually, while the giant was playing his game, there were cars, buses and bikes running up and down his back all day long. And why not? After all, people need some way to get over the river. Very soon, however, he found out that, whenever he “was a bridge”, there was a constant flow of traffic on his back – so he decided not to straighten up until the day was over and there was no one left up there. After all, he didn’t want anybody to get hurt. But as soon as it was night, he would unbend himself, stretch his limbs, sit down comfortably on his favorite spot by the edge of the river, and strike up a conversation with his old friend as he watched her quiet waters gracefully flowing by. Continue reading “The Bridge Who Was a Giant”
The swimming pool was teeming with people. Bright luminescent bikinis, squealing children, laughing dads, chattering moms, all jumbled up together in a thick soup of incessant movement, stirring, whirling, mixing, blending.
On one side of the pool, there was a man sitting by the edge of the water with a long pole, fishing. His face was hidden in a thick beard. He seemed totally detached from what was going on around, watching intently the red bobber on the undulating surface of the pool. A guard hastily jumped down from his tower and ran towards the man.
“Sir,” he said with an air of utter amazement, “what are you doing? This is a swimming pool!”
The man didn’t budge.
“So what?”
“This is not allowed!” “This is…,” he stumbled, “you’ve got hooks out there, people can get hurt!”
In the blue-blue sea, there lived a fish called Self-Fish.
What a strange name, you might say.
Who gives such a name?
Well, it’s actually a whole group of fish. They are called “Self-Fish” by other sea creatures who are sure about themselves that they don’t belong to this category.
She knew very well who she was – Self-Fish. Of that she was reminded daily.
“Stop thinking about yourself all the time.”
“You never care about others,” the others chided.
“Why are you looking at yourself all the time?”
“If you weren’t Self-Fish, you would have had more compassion on our poor nerves.”
“Why am I Self-Fish?” thought Self-Fish. “I need to change. From now on I will think about others all the time.”
And that’s what she did.
Tired of being shamed and blamed, she decided she would be looking out for the interest of others.
She was hoping that others would start appreciating her more and more and would finally stop calling her Self-Fish.
But the more she tried to please others, the less they seemed pleased.
In fact, they blamed her all the more.
“You should think more about others and less about yourself! Shame on you, Self-Fish.”
“What’s happening?” thought Self-Fish.
“It’s not working. Am I so hopeless?”
And so, she doubled and even tripled her efforts.
But the more she tried, the less it worked.
Finally, she got so exhausted and hopeless of pleasing others that she flung up her fins in utter desperation:
“I must be doomed. I was born Self-Fish, and I will die Self-Fish.”
“Die hard,” said a crab who lived next door, and whose name happened to be Bruce.
“What do you mean?” asked Self-Fish in bewilderment.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself,” grunted Bruce as he clipped off a seaweed with his sharp claw.
“What’s your problem?”
“I am,” replied Self-Fish, “I am Self-Fish.”
“No worries,” said Bruce. “Have a coffee.” And he handed her a Frappuccino.
“You know what? Stop trying to save the world,” finally said Bruce after a pause.
“It never works. Believe me, I know. No matter how many times you try to save the world, it always gets back in a mess.”
“Hmm…,” said Self-Fish, “but if I stop trying to save the world, wouldn’t it be selfish?”
“Selfish is as selfish does,” replied Bruce.
“To be selfless, you must first have a Self that you can give up. There is a world of difference between giving up yourself and giving up on your Self.”
“What do you mean?” asked Self-Fish in utter amazement.
“You must first become who you are. Become Self-Fish.”
“But… but… I am that already!”
“You see, if you don’t have a Self, you are not really a Self-Fish.
And to have a Self, you must start looking at yourself before you look at others. Look at your Self!”
“But if I keep looking at myself, I will be more selfish.”
“Trust me on that,” said Bruce grimly and gave her a look that couldn’t be resisted.
So, Self-Fish looked at herself but didn’t see much to look at.
“What do you see?” asked Bruce.
“Nothing special,” replied Self-Fish.
“Just keep looking. Just keep looking.”
“There’s nothing to look at,” finally said Self-Fish and turned her eyes away.
“It’s just me.”
“Just keep looking.”
“What’s there to see?”
“Don’t you see… a kid?
“A kid?”
“Yes, a scared little kid. A kid who was left all alone in the dark.
Believe me, I have met that kid once. A long time ago.”
“You did?”
“Old story,” said Bruce.
“I see her,” suddenly exclaimed Self-Fish and felt salty tears welling up in her eyes.
It seemed to her that up to this day she had been swimming in the ocean of tears.
“Good. Now take her gently by the fin. Hold tight. And never let her go. No matter what. Don’t leave her. You are her mommy now. And one day, she will be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To take on the world.”
“Have to go,” said Bruce.
“There’s another Apocalypse nearby. Remember to always look at her and never-ever-ever let her go, no matter what the others say.”
And then Bruce hopped on his cool Yamaha jetski and was off in a flash.
Sure enough, the “others” showed up in no time.
“Hey, what are you up to?” snapped the red snapper.
“Nothing… just looking at myself,” replied Self-Fish.
“Shame on you, Self-Fish,” snapped the snapper. “Always looking at yourself.”
For a brief moment Self-Fish stopped looking at herself and started looking at the snapper.
Suddenly she felt she was blushing from gill to tail.
She was almost about to blurt out a funny joke or two so as to divert his attention – the art she had mastered so well – but then something made her choke on her own words.
She distinctly heard a small little voice coming from inside her.
“Don’t leave me,” it said.
“What?” echoed Self-Fish and looked at herself intently.
And then she saw a little baby fish left alone in a dark cave and trembling all over.
She looked so little and so miserable that Self-fish immediately wanted to look away, get busy, invite the red snapper to dinner, hide in her little hole at the bottom of the sea – do anything so as to not think about it anymore.
But something made her look. She didn’t even know what it was.
It was so hard not to turn away, and yet there was something very beautiful about that little one.
She had eyes full of ocean-like sadness.
And there was a great big void.
And the void was so deep and wide and empty that one could easily drown in it.
It was like a gaping abyss in the crevice of time, an insatiable black hole sucking everything in with its irresistible gravity.
It was at once a pack of hungry wolves, a mighty hurricane, a raging ocean, and a gentle flower.
And there was beauty in it.
Some soft light was peeping out of that void.
It was coming from within as if it belonged to the void itself.
And this light shone out of the vast emptiness and there was life in it.
And in this light, there was something one could gaze upon hours and hours on end.
There was a river of peace flowing out of it, and a warm embrace of utter tranquility and healing.
There was a desperate cry as well as a dance of joy.
There was profound sorrow as well as a whiff of tingling freshness.
There was an ugly wound and a well of inner harmony.
There was at once Chaos and Order, as if fashioned by the hand of a masterful Artist.
“Don’t leave me,” asked the kid again.
“I am here. I am looking at you,” said Self-Fish, “and I will not leave you.”
The little one stopped trembling and looked up.
Self-Fish took her by the little fin and together they went shopping.
She was constantly looking at her, and the kid seemed to transform before her very eyes.
The longer she looked at her, the calmer and the happier the kid grew.
And with this calmness and peace settled over the little one, Self-Fish totally forgot about others.
She was alone in the world, but for the first time in her life she felt fine in her own company.
She was alone, and yet she wasn’t lonely.
She was by herself, and yet she was keenly aware that there was someone else with her.
As she spoke gently to the kid, it seemed to her that she was hearing another gentle voice speaking to her through her own words.
And as that other kind voice filled her heart and mind, she grew calmer, and stronger, and happier.
“Who are you?” she asked and looked around in amazement.
And from the unfathomable depths of her Self she heard a still small voice saying,
“Don’t look away. I am not out there, I am in here.”
She looked at her kid again, and suddenly it seemed to her that she saw someone else.
She saw another baby far-far away in a cold dark cave, and his mother rocking him gently in a manger and humming a familiar tune.
“I am not out there, I am in here,” repeated the still small voice.
“Just keep looking. Just keep looking.”
She drew closer, peeping into the darkness of the cave, and fixed her gaze firmly upon him.
And as she looked, the darkness of the cave receded like a mighty tidal wave, and a soft light poured from inside of the void, filling it up to the brim.
And her ocean-like sadness shook and gave way to a quiet sigh of relief.
And the salty tears she swam in for years became a bubbling brook of healing waters.
And out of the gaping hole on the inside came a beautiful song – the song of the void.
“Nice song,” commented someone passing by.
“Bruce!” exclaimed Self-Fish. “It’s so good to see you!”
“And you. You look radiant.”
“You know I’ve seen him.”
“The kid?”
“The kid.”
Bruce smiled.
“So, I see you are ready to take on the world,” said he and pointed to the empty seat in his jetski.
She laughed, hopped on, and off they went into the big wide blue.
